


Between the Lines

by What_About_Bugs



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish Courtship, Just give me more banter please, Justice for Welsh/Irish-accented Lavellan, M/M, and please just let elves be thick, both mentally and physically, moderate slowburn, more camping funtimes, that's all i'm doing this for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29698551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_About_Bugs/pseuds/What_About_Bugs
Summary: Relationships are forged in hardship, certainly, but it's the quiet times between grand last-stands and penultimate struggle when one truly notices the change. One mage, that is. And one hero-of-the-universe, too. As well as their peanut-gallery audience of friends.(Wherein Dorian and Lavellan both have it bad, go figure. Some allusions and references to the main questline of Dragon Age: Inquisition and its (non-Trespasser) DLC but the majority isn't included. I wanted more of this ship but I'm tired of writing out the entire plot of the game just to change a few small things. That being said, there still may be spoilers!)
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. A Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Saturday (and maybe more frequently as we go along)

There wasn’t always much in the way of entertainment for the Inquisition’s most-despised new member. Dorian had neglected to bring light reading, but found himself too weak a man to leave the fire once the sun had descended from its height. He lingered in the warmth, trying in vain to inject feeling back into his frosty toes. The Herald, whom up to that point had been the lion’s share of Dorian’s company (the only one not superstitious enough to be wary of him), still had yet to return. It was likely for the best, however.

Dorian might’ve wandered off to go search the man out; it gave him a better chance at someone to talk to, rather than spending his evening imprinting the mangled shape of fire embers on the inside of his eyelids. He bitterly refused himself the chance, however; despite all the friendly banter and feeling of _belonging_ he derided from Lavellan’s presence. Not to mention, the longer he spent there, it was like a shroud--or something like half a bottle of wine in his belly; giddy, tipsy delight--a layer of rose-coloured warmth cast over top of him which only grew more overwhelming with time. He’d always been weak to the care and attention of especially decent, pretty people.

It simply wouldn’t do, letting himself fall under that spell; feeling so needy as to trail along behind the Herald. If this was to be the only alliance he’d forge in the south, he wouldn’t spoil it by clinging too tight. He’d sober himself of the man’s pleasant company, if only for a time, even as temptation crept up in his shoulders like a shudder. He’d stay firmly at a distance, even _if_ he couldn’t help his eyes following Lavellan’s back any time he caught sight of him.

Even while he wrestled with the uncomfortable unease--why _shouldn’t_ he embrace an easy friendship? What was so wrong with appeasing this want for attention?--he found an easier distraction. The warden--Blackwall--had a hard time hiding his scornful glances. It was bitterly cold in the Fereldan lowlands; even if the warrior had a layer of armor, then hair, then gristle, he should’ve been posted beside the fire, same as the mage. But, Dorian suspected, it was precisely his company which kept the man away.

So be it, then. He’d stay by the fire if only to inconvenience him. It was what he deserved, given such blatant bias. At least _he_ didn’t smell like an animal; in comparison, perfectly pleasant company. Hardly his fault some would rather make brash assumptions than warm their fingers by the fire.

“So, Sparkler.” A friendly voice, possessed of a low undertone, crunched over rocky ground to sit beside him at the fire’s edge. Dorian glanced in the direction of this new company to find the dwarf--Varric--offering up a flask and a flashed smile of greeting. “How’s the day treating you?”

“I’m sorry, are you addressing _me?”_ Dorian replied, expectant, already knowing the answer. He’d had precious few nicknames, but this one seemed… ill-founded. Varric made a show of looking around; over both shoulders, between his boots, up in the air.

“I think so, yeah.”

 _“Right.”_ Dorian, not sensing much chance at a way out (lest he ask and receive a worse one), took the name in stride. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Just fine?” Varric verified, a teasing quirk to his lips.

“Yes.” Dorian replied, brows raised, ready to pull out something snippier. The dwarf wasn’t outwardly rude towards him face-to-face but he’d stay at least politely wary. Sera, of all the Herald’s rag-tag group of misfits, was the only one he’d grown to accept. A quick trading of insults over drinks was simple enough, and she showed her lessening suspicion clearly on her face. Varric, however? His was a brand of veiled words and comfortable facades Dorian knew too well.

“Great. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk business.” Varric shook his still-offered flask for emphasis, asking more insistently for the mage to take the drink. Dorian obeyed, if only by emptying the dwarf’s hands.

“I have a bet going. You seem like a betting man, maybe I’ll get you in on it. Now, I know what you’re thinking--we’ve barely spoken to each other--and to _that_ I say, ‘you’re right,’ and, ‘I’m sorry, but I really, really want to win this bet.’” Varric gestured gently; to himself, then towards the mage, then between the both of them. “It’s… well, I don’t know. But it involves you, as well as a certain _someone.”_

“Well, isn’t that clear and precise. Say no more, I’ll happily help you.” Dorian drawled, opening the flask and giving a whiff. Even the slightest smell nearly burned a trail through his nasal cavity. He gave it a trying sip.

“Look, I’d tell you who the bet’s with, but that would probably ruin the whole event. _But,_ say I win the bet, I’m willing to give you a share. Let’s say sixty-forty.”

“Forty? For knowing nothing? For stumbling blindly into what may or may not be the right direction?”

“I’ll give you hints when the time comes, obviously. You want one to start?”

“This is incredibly idiotic. Why not?” Dorian took a larger swig from the flask, burning his mouth and throat with what might not technically have been for human consumption.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours. Our Most Holy is not exactly, uh… the _most holy,_ if you know what I mean.” Wiggling his fingers, Varric took back the flask and tucked it back into his jacket, effectively cutting the mage off.

“You say that as if it clarifies anything at all.” Dorian pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, both wiping it and trying to get a hold on what seemed like already-growing tipsiness. “The number of rumours I hear just by virtue of breathing the _air_ in Haven is honestly astounding. _Unholy_ doesn’t narrow much down, either, considering the reservations of Haven’s loose-lipped army of Sisters.”

“Well, let’s just say that he and Tiny are uniquely well-known and leave it there.” Varric waved a hand, as if to visibly clear the air of the subject. “But that’s not the point I’m trying to make. What I’m _trying_ to say is, despite any rumours you _might_ have heard, _I_ happen to know a little secret about our hero-of-everything.” A little, smug (and _very_ conspiratory) smile crossed the dwarf’s lips. Taking a silent cue, Dorian shuffled in nearer, brows furrowed.

“That is…?” He asked in a murmur, expectant.

“Prophet’s laurel is the way to his heart, guaranteed.” Matter of fact, Varric wiggled a thick finger to drive his point home. Dorian, rolling his eyes, drew back.

“Right. I can only imagine what this ridiculous bet is, now.”

“Trust me, Sparkler. Whatever you’re thinking is wrong. Just… keep it in mind. And try not to read too much into it.”

“This grandstanding isn’t exactly helping with that, so you know.”

“Yeah, probably not. But, hey--hell of a way to get to know me, right?” Giving a vague grunt, Dorian waved off the dwarf’s open arms and wide smile.

-

Feeling uniquely idiotic seemed to be a sensation Dorian was growing too used to, these days. Something in this crisp southern air, perhaps. He’d been making a great many more bets with Varric, given the ice now being broken between them. And since the first time they’d spoken more than a few brief words to one another, Varric hadn’t mentioned their initial bet once. So, all things considered, Dorian was happy to let it fade away to the back of his mind.

That was until they started their slow sweep through the Storm Coast. The weather was some of the worst they’d faced. Dorian was damp down to his socks and he could only imagine he looked like a sad, wilted handkerchief. The sun, too, would come out just long enough for them to get their hopes up, only to start up the showers again when they were unprepared and at their most vulnerable to a solid soaking. As if it were taunting them!

Here, with the too-close seaside to turn his stomach and nothing especially pleasant to distract, he found himself and Varric in… polite competition. Here and there they wandered, eviscerating random strangers with the Herald’s say-so. Once they went back to the walking, the bets would come out and the teasing would start.

Something about Varric’s writing, something about Dorian’s classist attitude--now, between cleverer traded insults, Dorian might rib the other man about the sensitive origin of his crossbow. About _Bianca,_ whomever she was, and what a catch she must’ve been for him to name a finicky, overly-complicated weapon after. Varric, in turn, would prod lightly at the sorer spots if he found them.

It was just after setting up camp on a lone hill, the umber sunset coloured against the mirroring ocean horizon (beautiful, if not for how it reminded Dorian of too-long sea voyages), and a choice jab about Dorian’s snobbery that the two of them settled down onto bedrolls and relaxed out of their banter. Varric produced a pack of playing cards from Maker-knew-where, and without asking, began to shuffle.

“Happened to see some prophet’s laurel just along the treeline when we came in.” Varric said, conversational, his eyes on the cards. Dorian leaned back onto his hands, releasing a belly-deep sigh and lolling his head to one side.

“That’s nice.” He replied, happy to side-step the conversation altogether; his feet had just barely stopped aching. Out of some kind of instinct, he glanced to where Lavellan organized requisitions with the help of a scout. Then, after a brief exchange, the elf slipped into the treeline; likely in search of firewood. When Dorian looked back at the dwarf, he was caught under a weighty, knowing once-over.

“Oh _no,”_ Varric drawled, punctuating it by setting down his deck of cards against the rocky ground, “it looks like I’m missing one. I guess I’ll have to go through _all_ my pockets and provide _no_ entertainment in the process.”

“Yes, what a crying shame.” Dorian murmured, spiteful, as he rose to his already protesting feet. “Rotten meddler.”

“Only the best, of course.” Varric replied, hands open and with his charmingest smile turned on. Waving him off with another complaining sigh, Dorian stalked away and in towards the underbrush.

As Varric had mentioned, the dark green bush grew fruitfully just outside the edge of their camp. He collected a few large leaves and berries and, keeping a careful ear open, wandered, tentative, farther into the trees. He spared a few glances over his shoulder--to ensure the orangey glow of the camp was still firmly seated behind him; that he hadn’t gotten himself lost--and continued on until a break in the brush.

A swiftly-coursing stream cut its way through the rocky ground, both spindleweed and blood lotus huddled along its edge. Feet already in the water, the Herald picked his way through, tucking each treasure into a bag in his one hand. Dorian cleared his throat as he approached, pressing down the spike of nerves in his gut with a smooth smile once Lavellan looked his way; _there_ was the embarrassment, settling in at the back of his mind. A small grin carved little creases into the man’s cheeks and he rose from his crouch at the stream’s edge.

“Dorian,” he greeted, “what can I do for you?”

“It’s a bit silly, now that I think of it,” Dorian replied, flippant, as he stepped nearer the water. He held out his offering in one hand, well within the elf’s reach, “given you could have picked it yourself. Regardless, I heard you like it.”

Lavellan, mouth set to one side and brows furrowed, inspected the bundled gift of prophet’s laurel with lukewarm suspicion. Instead of accepting it, he stepped out of the water and did his best to shake out the wetness from his legs. There was a smile hidden somewhere behind his expression and Dorian fought to not draw his hand back and admit a cowardly defeat. Save his pride from whatever teasing might be incoming. He could deal with taking orders from a man who scolded, certainly. It would be annoying, but he could take it. But a man who joked and teased like a friend? Who fooled him into thinking better of himself than he ought to? A dangerous thing. One he wasn't yet equipped to grapple with.

“What for?” Lavellan asked, more playful than concerned. The pads of his fingers barely brushed the back of Dorian’s offered hand--as if it were weighed down by the gift, and at risk for dropping it--while his other carefully swept it out of his grasp. Dorian watched the contact, frozen in one spot, and put on a smile once Lavellan did. He hoped he didn't seem _too_ desperate in trying to earn the Herald's good opinion.

“I thought you could use a gift.” He replied, making it up as he went along. “Perhaps to make up for all this do-goodery. It was this, or trying to drag you into something overtly _sinful,_ just to balance things out.”

“Well, I hope sin’s not entirely off the table now I’ve taken this from you.” Pearlescent teeth flashed from behind blushed lips, cheeks once again creasing with that same cheerful grin. Dorian let out a breath of a laugh and choked back what would be a much more flirtatious reply. Patience. _Eagerness_ wasn’t the picture he intended on painting.

“I’m sure we can work out the details.” Lavellan slipped the gathered laurel into his herb pouch and, one hand barely brushing at the mage’s shoulder, guided him to move back towards the camp.

“Now, _you_ said you _‘heard I like it’.”_ Lavellan’s hand came more upon Dorian’s arm, giving a small (somewhat intimidating) squeeze. “Would y' care to share your sources, sir?” 

Dorian would be a dirty, rotten lying ne’er-do-well of a young man if he said the gently threatening tone and the stiff grip on his shoulder didn’t… do things to him that it shouldn’t have. But he’d never bothered himself much with the specifics of candor and authenticity; so he’d be not-thinking about it all later on, when he was afforded more privacy.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Highly sensitive; you know how it is.” Dorian replied, trying to talk his way through the nerves rising in his stomach like bile. Hopefully, Varric had ‘found’ his ‘missing’ card by now and was ready to drink and bet the night away. He could do with a distraction. Lavellan let out a gentle laugh.

“Of course. Well, thank you for the gift. Go ahead and tell Varric I like black lotus better.” With a pat to his arm, Lavellan sent Dorian on his way. The mage wandered back to where Varric still sat, collapsing into a seat across from him and letting out a long, quiet groan.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?” Varric asked in a laugh. Following a tired scrub at his eyes, Dorian chanced a quick glance to where Lavellan now tended to the campfire, Blackwall at his side. As if he read the mage’s mind, Lavellan caught his eye and sent a teasing smile and little wave. Dorian lolled his head back towards Varric.

“Worse. He wanted me to tell you: prophet’s laurel isn’t his favourite.” Varric let out a deep laugh and dealt the cards held in his one hand.

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.”


	2. A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sequel coming soon: Two Bros Chillin by the Fire, Probably Close Enough to Cuddle

_ “What  _ are you looking at, Dorian?” Blackwall’s timbre, curled around a ball of tightly-wound annoyance, caught the rest of the party’s attention. They paused, allowing their Herald to take out his map and plan their route. In the meantime, Dorian leaned one arm on his staff and it pierced an inch into the soft earth beneath it. He loosed his lips to let out a nonchalant sigh.

“I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, actually,” the mage replied, faced by the warrior’s frowning,  _ “are  _ you a man? At what point do you become more dirt than human being?  _ Are  _ you still a human being when your lice outnumber your pores five-to-one?” Blackwall crossed his arms stubbornly over his chestplate.

“I don’t  _ have  _ lice.” He replied stiffly. Dorian let out a guffaw at his expense.

“Oh, certainly  _ that’s  _ the thing to contend with, here.”

“You know, if you weren’t such a pompous ass, we might get along.” Varric wandered towards the Herald, skirting around the growing argument.

“A generous offer, but if I wanted a stinking, overeager beast for company, I’d be more inclined to adopt a stray dog; over a man who apparently bathes in refuse, based on the smell. But thank you.”

“Right. I know your type; you’re too good for everyone not like you until you realize you’ve pushed all but yourself away. Good luck with that. If you come whining ‘cause you’re lonely and no-one likes you, I’m not listening.”

_ “Alright, _ you two.” Lavellan, sighing, cut off the squabble just as it started to edge towards something worse. “You’re like siblings. Horrible,  _ annoying _ siblings.” He spared a glance down to the marked-up map in his hand and made a gesture for their next destination. The party quieted as they resumed their four-man march.

“Apologies, Herald, for the bickering.” Blackwall spoke up, not quite a minute in. Dorian murmured something under his breath and, before the warrior could finish rearing up to say something else inflammatory, Varric quickly intervened. He fell back a step, pushing the mage to walk in line with their Herald. He himself hung back, giving the warden a friendly slap to his arm.

“So, Hero. Mind if I pick your brains a little? Need to nail down your character.”

“I’m sure our mage would have plenty to say on the subject.” Blackwall grumbled, trying to stare daggers into the back of the man’s head. Varric, careful, worked to guide the warrior’s mind away from the earlier argument. Their conversation grew more hushed; conspiratory, meekly-bantering murmurs passed between them, too quiet to reach Dorian’s ears now that he was firmly in time-out. Maybe he’d earn a spanking if he said something else out of line.

Despite any number of lewd and facetious remarks coming to mind, the mage kept his eyes down and his lips firmly shut in the Herald’s company. Making even more of an awful nuisance of himself wouldn’t get him anywhere good. Anywhere he  _ wanted  _ to be (which would be far from where he now was, at Lavellan’s side). He loosed another sigh. 

It almost seemed disrespectful, treating such a decent man’s attention like a trinket; something to earn, to keep on a shelf and never use for anything earnest. He worked to keep Lavellan’s good opinion for… what? Just to have? To pretend, in vain, that if a thoroughly  _ good  _ person could think so highly of him, that he, too, might be worthy? Might  _ also  _ be a decent sort? It was certainly easier than doing anything actually good to convince himself on his own--

“You always enjoy arguing?” Lavellan spoke up, drawing Dorian’s attention away from his boyishly ashamed silence.

“On occasion,” he replied, putting on a smile, “so long as it’s evenly matched; I’m more for a debate than brutish, nonsensical yelling.”

“Suppose that’s what these  _ southerners  _ go for?” Lavellan asked, more of a tease. Dorian wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to laugh.

“Seems that way.”

_ “I’m  _ not exactly a poncey sort of man.” Blackwall spoke up, still speaking to Varric, though his inflection was clearly trying to garner attention elsewhere.

“I don’t know,” Varric chimed, more quiet, clearly grappling for a hold and trying to pull back on the man’s passive aggression, “I think you two have more in common than you think.”

“I have a hard time believing that.” The warden replied, as if he were spitting it at the back of Dorian’s head.

“As if  _ you’re _ a paragon of righteousness.” The mage said, the roll of his eyes nearly audible.

“At least I have a  _ sense  _ of righteousness.”

“And you should count yourself quite lucky to have even that! A stunning impossibility, given how often you must be knocked on the head.”

“You  _ do  _ realize you’re just describing most people who fight with a sword in hand?” Blackwall replied, something just a  _ hint  _ more knowing to his tone. Lavellan sighed, long-suffering, but it was drowned out by Dorian’s need to argue back.

“Not any especially  _ good _ swordsmen, I’d say.”

“Bold of you to make claims about our Herald. I think he’s a fine swordsman.” Lavellan let out a louder groan, cutting them off just as Dorian started to bristle back at the intentional misunderstanding. 

“That’s enough.” Lavellan ordered, sharp enough to make even the larger warden’s arguing posture straighten out. “One more word an’ I’ll be leaving one or both of you at the camp. You’ll make the trip back to Haven with the caravans. That clear?”

“Yes, Herald.” Blackwall grunted, not unlike a scolded child. Lavellan sent the mage a stern look, earning a less childish nod. They carried on through the underbrush, left to the sound of cracking branches and birds calling in the air above.

-

The sound of rushing water found its height as the party of four broke through the underbrush at the narrow bank of a rushing river. The past days’ rain made it spill out onto the dirt and grass like a cup held in the grip of a clumsy toddler. The ground mashed under their feet, submissive, and Dorian was careful to hike up the hem of his robes to keep them from sopping up dirty water.

Lavellan gravitated towards the water’s edge, as per his usual. Dorian weighed his options. There was really only one; given his only other chance for company was Varric, whose conversation Blackwall still lorded over with a sharp scowl his way. The Herald had gotten some twenty strides’ advance towards the water, so Dorian, giving into what would be some more time spent in shame-silent company, trailed along in his direction. He meandered in his path, playing coy for no-one, pretending like he could give a shit about the river rushing some four feet from where he walked parallel.

Lavellan knelt at the muddy bank, apparently uncaring of whether or not Dorian ran after him like an overeager puppy--or followed along at all--and studied the mashed ground. It made said mage’s casual facade seem far more aimless in comparison. He picked through half-chewed elfroot for what leaves he could salvage; working quick, diligent and silent. Dorian leaned onto his stave, pretending to not watch him so closely. A ruined wooden structure on the opposite bank caught his eye as he cast his gaze, apathetic, away from the Herald.

“What do you think that could be?” He asked, barely audible over the raging river in its march downhill. Lavellan climbed to his feet, rubbing dark-stained marks into his knees, and followed Dorian’s gaze to the half-collapsed construction.

“A platform, maybe? Or a bridge.” He rubbed his red-tinted hands together, stark-coloured from the lashing sprays of ice-cold rainwater. “Looks like there’s wood at the bottom. Think you could move it?” Lavellan requested. Sizing up the problem, Dorian gave a tentative nod.

“I can certainly try.” He said, beckoning the spare wood rubble with a spell. The soaked boards stood up straight upon his prodding, but little more. An itch at his neck, Dorian glanced aside to find the Herald watching him with rapt attention and a small, pleased smile.

“Was there something else…?” He asked. Such careful watching from someone like  _ him _ made him feel as if he’d done something wrong, even if he knew with complete certainty he hadn’t. Had he? Lavellan, folding his arms over his chest, gave a little shrug.

“No. Fun to watch you, that’s all.” He gestured at the mage’s overall stance. “Y’got performance anxiety? I can turn around.” Dorian spared a dry laugh for the teasing and carried out his spell, rearranging the rubble to form a narrow bridge across the bank. As his hands dropped, one clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, look at you. Knew I kept you around for something.”

“Aside from having someone to try out all your jeering remarks on.”

“Aside from that, yeah.”

-

The camp was quiet, save for Blackwall’s early snores and the scouts’ hushed banter as they played their game of wicked grace apart from the fire, and the Herald sat in front of it. Varric marked up the sheet of unfolded spare parchment he kept in his jacket--a draft of his novel, or so he’d said--with the tips of his toes dangerously close to the flames. Neither party gave even a whisper of conversation, the both of them caught up in their own separate worlds.

Dorian, having spent the past hour and a half wide awake in his bedroll, sat up with a frustrated start. He slipped from his tent--sequestered far from the warden’s--and crept towards the fire, bundled tight in a scratchy woollen blanket.

Lavellan glanced from his toil for only a moment as the mage settled in beside him, fingers moving swiftly to knot and braid a few pieces of rough, grassy cord. Dorian leaned elbows on knees, watching the firelight dance from behind drooping eyes. One cold hand ran over his mouth, the skin around it rough with starting stubble. As if a stink had reached him, Varric perked up, eyed the mage across the fire, and plucked himself up to turn in for the night.

With only the two of them at the fire, Lavellan glanced up once more. His fingers paused, if only for a fleeting moment, as his mind juggled the words he chose.

“Do you need something?” He asked, voice quiet against the hiss and sigh of the fire. “Not that you’re bothering me.” He was quick to correct, as if the mage could ever manage to misconstrue his words as anything other than kind and polite. He had that effect; perhaps due to his title. Another glance and Lavellan flashed a warm smile.

“I wanted to apologize for earlier this morning. Bickering is… an occasional weakness.” Atop a heaping pile. Dorian rubbed a few fingers at one weighty eye, sifting through the awkward space between _vulnerable apology_ and _the great and long-awaited outcome._ He watched Lavellan’s fingers move, too tired and too drained to look up and try to gauge his expression. Instead of a ‘ _you ought to, you cocky pomp,’_ or, ‘ _I don’t know what you mean--come, let’s embrace--’_ which he might’ve expected, Lavellan let out a heavy sigh. One which seemed to rush forth from the depths of his stomach with the force of a hurricane wind.

“Do you wear much jewelry?” The Herald asked, fingers still working tirelessly. He neared the end of his knotted cord. Appraising his work, he took the two ends and joined them to form a loop. “I’ve seen your rings. I’m only curious if there’s room.”

“I… suppose. It’s typically reserved for when I want to flaunt.” Dorian replied, trying in vain to make something of the non-sequitur before the answer could be provided on a silver platter. Which Lavellan was only so kind as to oblige, more often than not.

“Which is often.”

“Naturally.” Lavellan turned the loop in his fingers, thoughtful. “... Is there something to this line of questioning?” Dorian tried, giving in.

“Of course.” The Herald offered up the small project, extended to the mage from between two fingers. “For you.”

“For…?” Dorian asked, expectant, though he reached for it all the same. It slid onto his wrist comfortably enough.

“You.” Lavellan finished, snorting.

“You…” Dorian started, wiggling an accusatory finger. You  _ terror,  _ you  _ arse-- _ he might’ve joked if he didn’t already feel like he was on thin ice. Though the small gifted charm did… muddle things, a bit. He wasn’t exactly sure  _ where  _ he stood in the Herald’s purview, now. He trailed off with a displeased grumble, outshined by a quiet chuckling.

“It’s lots of things. Depending who you ask, could be a charm to protect from demons and spirits. Others, it’s just some braided grass. Whichever you are, consider it a token of our friendship.”

“The Herald of Andraste, gifting out  _ friendship bracelets?  _ It sounds like something straight out of a chantry fable.”

“And thus,” Lavellan started, dry, as if reciting something off a page, “the worlds of god and man were still; trembling at the raw power of Her Herald--the chosen--holding at bay the legions of darkness with only the light of girlish enthusiasm to guide him.” He put out his arms, as if waiting for applause, and Dorian was quick to provide just that.

“Though, if this  _ were  _ a chantry fable, I expect I’d be considered more on the side of the  _ legion of darkness. _ ” Dorian ran the pad of one thumb over the uneven, waxy surface of the simple gift. When was the last time he’d been given something handmade?--

“Probably. It’s the hair; it makes you look like a villain.” The mage’s brow furrowed in protest, though it was quickly interrupted, “but, so be it. You’ve earned my friendship and enthusiasm well enough.” Lavellan landed a brief, barely-there punch to Dorian’s blanket-padded arm.

“Relieving to know it’s  _ that,  _ rather than ire.”

“I think you under-estimate how entertaining your bickering can be.” Dorian snorted under his breath, slipping into a posture more withdrawn.

“Ah, how charming. The bragging rights will be incredible; I’ll be all the rage. Just picture it:  _ I  _ was  _ entertainment  _ to the Herald of Andraste! Sod all that nonsense about saving the world.”

“Let’s not be self-deprecating.” Lavellan scolded, light, something teasing in how he grinned sideways in Dorian’s direction. Strange, how laying in a cool bedroll steeped by guilt could be so quickly forgotten by a warming smile. “You have plenty of good qualities aside from being inflammatory.”

“Do I, now? You wouldn’t happen to have a list, would you?”

“You know  _ what?”  _ Lavellan tittered, elbow bumping his arm, “I just might. Let me see.” He reclined back on the half-log upon which they sat, extending out his long legs towards the receding firelight. “You… are able to read.”

“Invaluable. I doubt a hundred men could read as mightily as I do.”

“Damn right;  _ and,  _ you can grow facial hair. You’ve got the little,” he made a gesture for his face, “thing.”

“You need people to match your weaknesses one-for-one, I say.” Dorian replied, nodding facetiously, ready for the dwindling list to run out.

_ “But,  _ most of all,” Lavellan braced a hand at his shoulder, giving it a rousing shake, “you’re a mage I can stand.”

“Controversial.” Dorian hummed, letting out a low whistle. “I don’t suppose I should go around flaunting such sensitive information.”

“Probably not. Her Herald shouldn’t be promoting hostility in the ranks. You rouse that enough by breathin’ the same air as ‘em.”

“And  _ Her Herald  _ is on my side, rather than the hateful masses? I must be blessed.” Lavellan gave another little shrug.

“I’m sympathetic to people in a fish-out-of-water situation.  _ And  _ I don’t mind the whole… smart-ass nobility  _ thing  _ you have going. Makes you sound endearing and silly, usually.” As what might have been a compliment turned into something a hint more insulting, Dorian gave a long nod and a look of only mild offense.

“Right. Well, I’m pleased to hear that my  _ silliness  _ has made a good impression. I was starting to wonder. Given all the sneers.”

“You’re doing fine, my friend.” Lavellan said, more stern and more serious when he squeezed a hand on the mage’s shoulder, asking to be looked up at properly. “Rumours float around here like a plague; just know I’m happy to have you regardless of what the masses are murmurin’ about.”

“Well, I suppose I  _ have  _ to stay and help, then,” Dorian said, gaze lingering on the contact for a stuttering moment, “if I’ve been promoted to  _ friend.” _

“If that’s what’ll convince you,” Lavellan replied, beaming bright but exhausted, “I’m happy to repeat it as often as you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan: im happy to have you here :)  
> Dorian: you can have me any way you want  
> Dorian:  
> Dorian:  
> Dorian: ??hmm?


	3. The Beginning

The Inquisition, as a vast generalization, was a messy collection of mismatched pieces. A governing body composed of different nationalities and different views. A base of operations which they’d hijacked, filling with as many allies as they could scoop up in cupped palms. Their goods and supplies were hand-me-down; donations, forage or abandoned rubbish polished to a fine luster. Their camps were no exception.

Lavellan sat back, chair wobbling on the old planks beneath as they sank farther into the soft earth. It was older than him, likely; its stuffing was matted inside the faded fabric shell and little sharp fastening poked at his skin wherever he tried to lean. The arm rests were worn thin with greyish stuffing peeking through, like a dog had chewed it for twenty-some odd years. The cup for his tea looked like it had been stolen from the Redcliffe tavern, and the Iron Bull perched awkwardly on a worn footstool, making it creak and groan whenever he gestured to something new on the map laid out between them.

“I say we clear out the East road, try to establish that camp,  _ then  _ try for the horses.” Bull said, tapping one large finger at the corner of their map of the Hinterlands. “Your idea would burn us out.”

“But the East road is in the exact opposite direction we need to go.” Lavellan replied, shaking his head, “I still think we should head to the farms first. We could set up a camp there, too.”

“If you think they’d be alright with that.”

“Well, once I charm them with my wit and demon-killing, I think they’ll be willing to sway.”

“Whatever you choose, Boss.” Bull put his hands up, then folded those massive arms over his chest. He looked like he wanted to lean back, but thought better of it. “I’ll follow.”

“I’d hope so,” Lavellan tittered back, breathing an exhausted sigh before a sip of his still-warm tea, “I’m stronger than I look, but I doubt I could drag you even a hundred yards.” He shifted carefully, trying to not catch any splinters in his already banged-up torso when he leaned back from their borrowed requisition desk.

“Really?” Bull drawled. “Get Blackwall to back you up and I think you could make it to Redcliffe.” Lavellan scoffed something wry behind another pull of his drink.

“He’d be better off without me; I can barely carry myself as is. It’s those templars.” He set down the wood cup with a gentle sound and tried to recline without irritating any of his blooming bruises. “Speaking of, when d’you think he’ll make it back?”

“This month, hopefully. I’m getting hungry.”

“Here’s hoping they didn’t get gored to death by bears.”

“I would bet on Blackwall. Maybe we’ll have bear stew.” Bull stood from the seat, towering over the Herald slouching in place. He stretched out his arms, letting out a few low pops. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Lavellan offered a nod in farewell before sinking into his solitude, finishing his tea and picking up an inking pen to start his requisition work for the evening.

-

Dorian crept up, a plate of food in hand, as if encroaching upon a sleeping beast. Lavellan sat hunched, cranked out of shape with his many healing hurts, with his jaw pressed into his palm. His gaze was focused on the middle distance, the campfire dancing in the reflection of his dark eyes. He startled out of what looked like his gloomy trance when the wooden plate met the desk beside his elbow. Glancing up and aside, Lavellan’s expression bloomed into a welcoming smile.

“Dorian.” As his eyes fell closed in a gentle nod of greeting, Dorian spared him a polite smile of his own.

“May I?” He asked, gesturing for the seat at the Herald’s right. Lavellan answered by pushing it out with his foot, leaving it open. Dorian sat himself on the wobbly footstool and scooted in a bit closer to the table, sitting far lower at it than the qunari had previously.

“I started to worry.” Dorian said, hands settling atop one another on the surface of the desk. “I thought perhaps you’d surrendered to the demons of paperwork. I figured I ought to come by and ensure that wasn’t the case.”

“Chivalrous.” Lavellan picked at the plate of food which had been delivered, his movements lethargic and weak. Dorian watched, covering a frown.

“I can try to heal you, if you’d like.” He offered, voice toned down. Lavellan flashed a smile his way, starkly contrasting with his deep-set dark circles.

“That’s a waste of energy. Bruises’ll heal quick enough.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t willing.” Dorian countered, almost feeling compelled to scold him. Lavellan focused more on the plate of food, picking up a small piece of boiled potato before pushing the rest more in the mage’s direction; a silent offering. He was quiet in the face of Dorian’s insistence, and if not for his contemplative look, said man might’ve been worried he’d overstepped.

“My sister used to make bracelets.” Lavellan said, instead cutting off their entire disagreement. Frustrating, certainly, but there was little to be done about it that wouldn’t make things worse. “She would collect flowers and weeds and spend days braiding them in all sorts of strange ways. I’m not as creative as she is, though.”

Dorian let out a gentle sigh, and with it, he released the tightly-coiled want for bickering from his shoulders. He fiddled with the charm on one wrist as Lavellan spoke, feeling his own small ache for home before cutting it off. That wasn’t something to moan over, internal or not, in pleasant company.

“Do you want to go back?” Dorian asked. “Home, I mean. When all this is over.” Lavellan leaned back in his seat, the panel groaning in weak protest.

“Maybe.” He replied, reticent. Dorian watched his adam’s apple draw down and up in a dry swallow, lips pursing as words raced towards them. “I’m… not sure what they’ll think of me if I do. I’m not really the same as when I left.”

“Could be. But there’s always something to go back for, isn’t there?” Lavellan folded his hands together and looked out at the dark sky, brows cinched in a look like quiet distress. A spike of anxious worry crept up the mage’s spine.  _ That  _ was the expression of someone too polite to tell him he’d asked too much.

A raven called before swooping down, landing with a few hops to peck at some discarded crumbs at the far side of the table. Lavellan tossed a piece of stale bread from his plate and another raven swept in to join in on the feast. A few more birds called overhead, distant, entirely invisible against the night sky.

“We’ll have to see how this Inquisition business goes. I’ve got the feeling there’s still a long road ahead.” Lavellan said, breathing out in a weak sigh.

“And plenty of possible gruesome deaths, no doubt.”

“Oh, sure, ruin the lighthearted mood.” Lavellan clicked his tongue, weakly teasing, and Dorian spared a bare chuckle for him. “I suppose you miss home…?”

“More every day. The weather here is terrible; it’s all so dry, I’m surprised I haven’t shriveled up like a prune.”

“Well, have no fear, you’ll be seeing it again. I can promise you that.” Despite the exhaustion hanging in Lavellan’s shoulders, he looked overwhelmingly vehement. The mix of the firm knot in his brow coupled with an expression of firm resignation sprouted the seed of worry.

“Given how your luck tends to turn out, I don’t know whether I’m willing to accept that sort of thing.” Dorian said, skirting around it. As if he could ask him  _ not  _ to do his job; be the Herald, play the martyr. There was also the question of whether he wanted him  _ not  _ to do it.

“Come, now. My luck isn’t  _ that _ bad.” Lavellan scoffed, waving him off.


	4. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoulda knocked on wood

The air burned in their lungs like a sickness, red lyrium and smoke so heavy in the air--even thirty feet above the blazing settlement--they could barely breathe. The broken party struggled on through knee-deep, ash-dyed snow; both Dorian and Varric kept their noses covered from the stink of carnage by whatever loose cloth they had on them. Cassandra kept on with a stone-cold expression, already running on fumes. She and the last remaining Inquisition soldier--spared to lead the Herald to safety--trudged on at the front, keeping a bare lookout on the surrounding peaks.

Then, as if the sky had decided to fall, a trebuchet strike landed with a deafening _crack,_ unworking half the mountainside on the outcrop to their right. They stopped, clumsy, and huddled together; watching, horror-struck, as the distant red fires of Haven were extinguished in a rolling white fog. A heavy cloud of ice fell over them like a shroud.

All their silent worries, dwelling on the last moments before they were sent away from the battlefield--their Herald, loomed over by an unreal monster--had come true. Reality trickled in slowly. In a moment, he was gone. There was a ground-shaking cry as an all-black dragon took off from the misty black-and-white rubble, disappearing into the night sky with a flash of red. The party watched, frozen and awestruck, as the last of their hope left. As their unshakeable enemy retreated from where their Herald made one final sacrifice; all for nought.

Cassandra was the first to move. Gaze distant, she tugged at the sleeves of her compatriots to urge them on. One by one, they turned from the distant ruin to march in solemn silence towards the faraway lights of what remained of the Inquisition.

-

Dorian’s boots squished with every step. He could barely remember what it felt like to have dry, warm feet; it seemed like a far-away memory, given two full days’ marching with little to no rest. The hundred-something cluster of men, women and beasts of burden trudged ever onward through slushy snow, no goal in sight. It seemed the general idea was to get away from whatever _that_ had been.

It was strange to be so miserable and sore without a speck of positivity to be found. Dorian had grown too used to Lavellan’s cheerful not-quite-optimism, apparently. Had he been there, he might’ve piped up: _at least it’s not raining,_ or, _have you ever built a fort in the snow?_ Or some other mildly entertaining idle chatter. It would be something to keep his mind off the endless, snowy wastes.

He’d be lying if he said the entire situation didn’t make him feel both bereaved and endangered. He’d come south to join the Inquisition, to be sure, but it was _Lavellan_ who he’d stayed for. It was _Lavellan_ who’d make a strong ally worth keeping, and the sort of decent man Dorian trusted to make good decisions he could go along with. Certainly better than himself.

Not only was that familiar element gone, but so too was his safety net. _Lavellan_ was the one he’d befriended. The one so integral to the whole operation, whose say could keep Dorian firmly placed within the Inquisition’s employ, regardless of rumours or nay-say. Not _only_ had the Inquisition-- _Thedas--_ lost its Herald, but Dorian had lost all hope of sticking around. It wasn’t likely he’d survive a pitchforks-and-torches march on his chambers.

Even as he promptly ignored any bitter, aching feelings of loss--too strong for his liking, given a well-needed facade of solemn impassivity--he thought on the best and most opportune time to make his exit. Quietly, hopefully. Without much flourish, aside from a few small exceptions. He wasn’t especially needy for a send-off by those who’d gladly see him freeze to death in the Frostbacks.

But then, those exceptions became more troublesome. By inches, Varric--one such exception--slowly, silently convinced him to stay. Like magic, really. If not forever, perhaps he could stick things out until the Inquisition found a place to settle. Or were made into a smear on the map; either way, a sense of finality.

The dwarf had done it apparently without realizing, but Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if it was all a long con. They would settle in and play cards without rules or bets; just something to keep their minds firmly off… _everything._ Varric would source them drink when possible, or else empty cups to pour a generous swig of his own stash into, for sharing. But, when the cards were away and the campfires sputtered out, he’d still find Varric awake by candlelight; working away on writing, or else staring out at the sky, a knot in his brow. Had Dorian been a better man, he might’ve been able to stomach a chat. Had Lavellan been there, it would already be taken care of.

It seemed like someone was always awake, these days. Dorian would lie in his bedroll, aching, wishing for sleep to come. Sera’s laugh would ring out between tents at a distance; spending time with someone-or-other to keep the dreams and the thoughts away. It felt like months since he’d last heard proper snoring at night.

It was no surprise, then, when Dorian slipped out of his tent and found Varric sitting on a soft patch of ground, tired eyes running over a piece of parchment in his grasp. The mage settled down beside him in silence, an agreement crossing the air between them. Varric folded up the parchment to tuck into his jacket pocket.

Leliana’s ravens called out as they circled overhead in concentric circles. Someone laughed, distant, and there was a coughing in amongst the quiet shuffling of the sprawling camp. Dorian fisted one hand in his hair and stared into the dirt which lay past his crossed legs.

“D’you remember,” Varric spoke up, quiet and gravelly against the smooth nighttime silence, “that first bet I tried to get you in on?” Dorian hummed, vague, in reply.

“You talked me into giving Lavellan that prophet’s laurel.” He verified.

“That’s the one.” Varric leaned back on his hands, casting droopy eyes towards the black, starlit sky above. “That wasn’t a real bet.” He covered his mouth with a fist and cleared his throat with a quiet cough.

“You ass.” Dorian murmured, rubbing a few fingers at the corner of one eye. Varric piped up with a hoarse, wheezing laugh, as if taken aback by the lukewarm hostility. "I should've known; between _you_ and _someone else."_

“Look, what was I supposed to do? Poor guy complained to me that _he_ was worried you weren’t gonna get along with anyone. So, I went and broke the ice. It’s not like I was _scamming_ you.”

“No, no, of course not. Only trying to scar me with horror and embarrassment. You’re very noble.”

“Awh, come on. Being my friend hasn't caused horror and embarrassment for at least a decade. I’m handsome. It’s time you admitted it.”

 _"That’s_ not the part that scarred me. It was moreso your deliberately misleading encouragement.”

“It’s not like he hated you for bringing the wrong flower.” Varric shook his head, still smiling to himself. They settled in silence for a moment, one or the other of them fiddling with his rings or trying not to sigh too loudly. “I think he liked you. You always made him do that little smile.” Varric jabbed his arm with his forefinger. “Like you’re the funniest guy he’d ever met.”

“Could’ve been something on my face; _now_ you tell me.” Dorian scoffed.

“Yeah, go figure, right? You only reminisce when there’s nothing you can do to change it.” Varric ran one lazy hand over his face, pausing to rub at his eyes. “I’m gonna turn in. Just… wake me up if the sky falls, alright?” He stood from his spot with a groan and shared with Dorian a brief wave before disappearing into one of the nearby tents.

-

Dorian couldn’t recall stumbling his way to a tent and tucking in for the night until he awoke in one, bundled up under a spare blanket, startled by incoherent yelling. As if an exalted march was happening outside the lukewarm world of his tent. He scrambled up and out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, to find people rushing past like a startled colony of ants. Through a part in the crowd, he spotted Varric, talking wide-eyed in hushed tones with one of the scouts. They abandoned him where he stood, giving Dorian the opportunity to sweep in and take their place.

“Such noise,” he said, the first words out of his mouth already a complaint, “don’t these people know what time it is?”

“Do _you_ know what time it is?” Varric replied, bantering even despite the anxious air surrounding him.

“That isn’t the point.” Dorian tittered, waving off the line of questioning. “Any idea what all this is about?”

“Not sure,” Varric said, clearly lying, “I’m hearing rumours, but I’m waiting to see what happens.”

“Incredibly vague and unhelpful, like usual.” Dorian breathed a long sigh. “I’ll see to breakfast. Whatever’s afoot, I’m not snooping around for answers on an empty stomach.” Varric gave him an amiable pat to his arm, bidding him adieu even before Dorian could leave. Eyes focused on something in the crowd, the dwarf started to wander away from him.

“Yeah, sure. See you later.” He said, sending a distracted wave his way. Dorian watched him go, brows furrowed tight, on-edge from the other man’s distraction. The Inquisition was a too-complicated rumour mill; he was certain answers would come his way with time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you got whiplash


	5. Safe-Kept Keepsake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm plotting 10 chapters ahead, who gave me the right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone bookmarking, commenting and leaving kudos. Happy to know y'all are enjoying my stuff.
> 
> (also psst hey shoutout to BeanSoup, good to see you :) )

It was the murmurs, as expected, which led him in the correct direction. Too concrete to be false, but too perfect to be true. Dorian could understand, now, what Varric had meant. He wandered in the direction of the rumours, dry hardtack in hand, and watched a sequestered tent from afar. Waiting, it seemed, to see what would happen.

Scouts and soldiers alike moved in and out near constantly. Some with bandages, some with cloths, some with water. Most alarming--though also promising?--was the exchange of all of these coming from the tent more bloodied.  _ Someone  _ was being well looked-after, and if the entirety of the Inquisition council huddling inside the tent was any indication, it was someone of significance.

Dorian chewed at his horrible breakfast, watching the tent from a distance like the sort of conspicuous Tevinter spy everyone pictured him as. Quiet steps encroached upon his flank, giving little time to prepare some sort of clever excuse for his peeping before someone appeared in his periphery.

“So, what’d’ja think?” Sera asked, voice at a conspiratory whisper, her eyes also on the far-away tent. Dorian relaxed, if only by an inch. “I figure it’s some soldier. You-know-who would make more of a racket.”

“Or else, Leliana’s been going to great pains to keep that noise down.” Dorian shot back, matching her volume. He cracked the un-bitten half of his hardtack off and offered it up. As expected, Sera was happy to oblige eating his scraps. Through her mouthful of dry bread, she spoke again, somewhat more scheming.

“Think we’re allowed to stop by and see?”

“I’m not sure I want to chance it.” Dorian replied, expression set grim. Sera let out a doubtful guffaw, releasing a few crumbs.

“Maybe  _ you  _ don’t. Stuffy coward.” She bumped his arm with hers and jerked her head in the direction of the tent, just as three-quarters of the Inquisition’s council slipped out. Their expressions were mixed; relief, worry and contemplation. Sera sent him an encouraging look, forcing a weak sigh from his lips.

“Alright, fine,” he conceded, allowing her to tug him along by a pinch of his sleeve, “but if we get caught, it’s  _ you  _ who’ll be dealing with it.” His voice lowered to a whisper as they slipped nearer the tent, maneuvering around various smaller bedrolls and supplies. Sera let out a snort.

“Fine by me; just run faster.” Crouching slightly, Sera took point in their two-person stealth mission and ventured a peek inside the tent. Dorian, on look-out, scanned the nearby area. The lines of scouts and soldiers had all but stopped, now that the advisors had gone. Whomever they’d taken in, they would likely be resting.

Sera jolted back and forced the tent flap shut with a mute gasp. She wheeled around to face the mage, who had been equally startled by her suddenness.

“There’s--” she started, a harsh whisper, before the flap flew open behind her. Cassandra, lips pursed tight, stood at its opening.

“What is this?” She asked, sharp. Sera grabbed a fistful of Dorian’s sleeve and shrunk back, as if asking to tap out. Weakly relenting, the mage stepped forth.

“We’ve been hearing rumours,” he supplied, “and wanted to see them through. Put our minds at ease; that sort of thing.”

“What rumours?” Cassandra demanded, her fistfuls of the tent flaps tightening in their already strangling grip. Playing things up, Dorian spared a glance over his shoulder.

“Can we come in?” He asked in a whisper, bluffing his way around the question. Cassandra’s expression stayed tight in the face of the request. Then, inch by inch, she gave in. The tent flaps fell slack and she stepped aside.

The tent was stuffily warm and crammed full of healing supplies, blankets and bags of miscellaneous capacity. A lone chair sat at the only occupied bedside. A candle burned on its makeshift side-table despite the daytime.

Within, a too-familiar face lay tucked in against balled-up makeshift pillows and layers of scratchy, woollen blanket. Lavellan, pallid and blue-tinted but firmly alive--awake, even--lay there. The group of them meandered towards his bedside, one seeming more wary than the others. As if watching a ghost, Sera kept some small distance between her and the foot of the bed. Lavellan’s chapped lips pulled into a weak smile.

“You said you’d walked here.” Cassandra spoke up, trailing back over to the Herald’s side and apparently continuing their interrupted conversation. Lavellan replied with a lazy nod.

“It’s unseasonably chilly out there.” He rasped. Dorian couldn’t help a laugh; half dazed and half shocked. Sera’s mild suspicion barely wavered, and Cassandra’s weighty expression stayed firm.

“How could you have survived?” She asked, more towards a whisper.

“Let’s say  _ grace of Andraste  _ and leave it at that.” He replied, wiggling to settle into his warm, if uncomfortable, bed. “The truth is much less awe-inspiring.”

“Regardless,” Dorian said, standing opposite the Seeker at Lavellan’s other side, “we should be thankful. I doubt anyone bet on you coming back.”

“Should’ve. Could earn enough to retire twice.” Lavellan let his eyes softly shut, not quite asleep but ready to rest. Cassandra, clearly uneasy, gestured for the tent flap regardless.

“I hope this is enough for those supposed  _ rumours.  _ If there is something more, we should speak outside. Our Herald needs his rest.” She said. Sera, silently nodding, kept her eyes on Lavellan as she slipped back out. Before Dorian could step away, Lavellan’s hand escaped his blanket-prison, tugging a pinch of his sleeve to draw his eye.

“You, stay. I’d like a word with you.” The request hung in the air, the mage and the seeker sharing a glance. Without another word, Cassandra stepped out of the tent to afford them privacy. Lavellan gestured to the chair at his bedside. “Go on, sit.”

“I hope I’m not in for a lecture.” Dorian said, flippant, doing as he was told.

“Of course not.” Lavellan replied, voice coarse. He worked his arms out from under their blanket cover, allowing the mage full view of the splint supporting one wrist, as well as the bruises and cuts littering his hands and arms. Some of them seemed partly-healed; a reminder of just how long the Herald must’ve followed after them. Guilt stirred, despite himself. They couldn’t have known.

“I expect Mother Giselle’ll be coming by, sometime soon. How do I look?”

“Handsome, as always. Though I don’t expect she’s on the market.” Lavellan shook with a weak laugh. It turned to a cough, which he smothered behind a loosely-coiled fist.

“Do I look bad enough to send her away? Not really in the mood to listen to the, uh…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

“Tangential babbling?”

“Yeah.”

“Just tell her you need rest. Alone. In case she feels the need to pray over you.”

“Good plan.” Lavellan sank with a sigh, rubbing at one eye with the clumsy heel of a palm. “How is everyone? Varric?”

“Keeping together, for the most part. No-one gives away much, as you’d expect.”

“And you?” Lavellan asked, lolling his head to catch him with a weakly worried look.

“What about me?” Dorian countered, deflecting the honest concern with an airtight expression of blissful ignorance. Yes, everything was completely fine! Not a night or three spent wide awake and withering away, no slowly dwindling hope for  _ not  _ the end of the world. He felt exceptionally pleasant  _ and  _ cheerful. No reason to be overcome by the tipsy, cotton-headed feeling of relief or restrained joy.

“Don’t play coy with me, young man.” Lavellan rasped, pointing an accusatory finger his way. “You’re not as sly as you think. Tell me something honest.”

“Honest?” Dorian guffawed, still keeping up the carefree pretense. He’d feel bare without it, under such kind and careful scrutiny. “Fine.” It was haughty and flippant, but it peeled away an inch of his mask all the same.

“Things have been… dire. Without you around to give people hope, they’ve all given up pretending like it’s not the end of the world.” He hoped it was good enough.  _ Honest  _ enough. He hoped maybe Lavellan could glean from it what he hadn’t the courage to say himself;  _ we  _ needed you.  _ I  _ needed you. I’m glad you’re alright. “It’s terrible for morale. The amount of coin I’ve lost to Wicked Grace, just trying to keep the dread at bay? Embarrassing.”

Lavellan let out a knowing hum of agreement and lolled his head back to look up at the puckered tent ceiling. Dorian fidgeted, tapping a foot, in the ensuing silence, hoping against hope that he hadn’t said too much; made himself look foolish and sentimental.

“I doubt the advisors’ll be happy, but  _ I,  _ for one, am glad you’re a meddler.” Lavellan said, a pleased perk to his lips. “It’d be a pain to get some kind of message to you, otherwise.”

“You’re not supposed to be alive to the general public, yet, then?” Dorian asked, reclining in the rickety wood chair. He leaned his jaw onto one hand, enjoying more than he’d like to admit his view of the Herald’s profile. That he was there at all was a miracle he wasn’t yet ready to step away from, whether or not he was spending it inappropriately studying the man’s features.

“Sounds like it. Leliana said something--I’ll be  _ officially alive  _ once I’m well enough to receive visitors. Put on a show; look like facing down an archdemon was nothing short of a midday stroll. For morale, or something. I don’t know; they were taking out and putting back all my bits of flesh and bone at the time, it was a mite distracting.” Lavellan waved a lazy hand. “Another day, maybe. Keep it secret or don’t; just know you might face her wrath if you bungle things.”

“How reassuring. Varric will be a fine confidant, don’t you think? He could use the uplifting news.”

“I’d be surprised if he doesn’t already know. He’s Cassandra’s main weakness.”

“True enough.” Dorian watched the tightness slip out of Lavellan’s brow; what must’ve been days’ worth of severe, lifesaving stubbornness. He fiddled absentmindedly with the bracelet on his wrist, only mildly embarrassed by his own sentimentality. Even if Lavellan had a knack for lording over his emotions; bringing out shame and embarrassment without his say, for whatever reason he could think up. It was dreadfully unfair to be swayed so easily.

“Are you… alright?” He asked, tentative. He’d long since given up trying to understand things from Lavellan’s view; to put himself in the man’s shoes. As if he could ever be on such a level! It seemed, more often than not, that their Herald was entirely untouchable. Unfazed by the horrors and the trials he’d been called to face. But, to be marching through snowy, frostbitten wastes? Apparently abandoned by the people he’d nearly died to save? Their travel was hard enough in a massive group; it was near unthinkable to consider doing it alone.

“Enough, give or take.” Lavellan replied, weighing the words on his tongue. “As much as I can be, I suppose. Given I nearly lost all my toes.”

“That makes  _ my  _ troubles seem infinitesimal in comparison,” Dorian murmured, weakly teasing, “it was too loud this morning when I woke up, if you’ll believe it.” Lavellan let out a sound between a laugh and a groan.

“Maker, what I’d give to be woken up by noise. It’s like I’ve been livin’ in a void for days. If I could make a request?”

“Please.”

“Talk my ear off for an hour or two? I’ll likely fall asleep, but that means you’re doin’ it right.” Dorian let out a light laugh and settled in, crossing one leg over another.

“Of course. I have plenty of long and lewd stories to provide.” He said. Lavellan wiggled down deeper into his covers, pressing one cheek against his pillow and listening with a small smile as the mage started up some long-winded story or another.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment to let me know your thinkies. :)


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